His mind finally circled around once more from this last thought to where his ruminations had begun--and his heart began to burn in wrath again. All of this, indeed, was why it made him practically murderous to have discovered the truth about Michelle today, having looked up her INS files in secret. She had hidden a lot in them, and in the other documents he had searched, but he had managed to piece together enough information, nonetheless. And he didn't like the results at all.

That she was a Wolfe, however--he thought once more--explained a lot to him about her sudden appearance and her total interest in a much younger man. . . . But none of what it told him was good.

He understood now that she had to be on some sort of mission for her parents. What he had left to discover, though, was just what she was playing at. Why were the Wolfes targeting him? He wasn't high-ranking enough to be of any real value, and he had already turned them down, pretty categorically, once before. It wasn't like he was the only munitions expert on earth, either--or, although he half-bristled to admit it, necessarily the best. What the hell was it, then?

He shook his head slightly. This wasn't all which had him stymied, however. Another couple of things which confused him, too, could be traced back to what he had observed between the woman and Nikky the other day; sometimes, in fact, when she seemed to think that no one was looking, her eyes did seem to hold such intense emotions for the kid--all of them tender and deep. Nik, too--he knew, was usually such a good judge of character, never got taken in by just a pretty face or nice body--not, sadly, a trait he had always gotten from himself, he knew, at least in his youth. He wasn't, then, likely to just be with Michelle because she was hot. His mind circled further. Oh, yeah, and then there were those self-defense lessons she had been giving him; what the hell were those about? He shook his head. Damned if he knew.

He took a supporting breath, then, and stood up. He was going, though, to go find out; he was going to talk to the woman and see what he could figure out in her. Maybe it was all just some *really* weird coincidence, but those didn't happen too often--if ever--in his business. He would just have to see.

Still, one thing he knew absolutely. If she were up to something, he would take her out; there would be no other choice. He walked over to a drawer, unlocked it, and reluctantly took out his gun. Nikita might never forgive him, of course, but he was going to protect the kid no matter what, even against his own will, if it came to that. . . . He had failed him all too often before to simply leave it up to fate again now.

*********

She couldn't deny the truth; yesterday had been wonderful--last night even more so. What she could feel coming toward her now, however, was anything but. . . . Now, indeed, she was about to confront her fate.

Michelle didn't know when he would be here, of course, but she knew Walter would come; the unbridled suspicion he had cast at her time and again yesterday, beneath his overt good humor, had been unmistakable. He knew who she was. Now, she just had to wait to see what he would do.

She would have liked to hope, of course, that he wouldn't try to force her away from Nikita in any way, but she also feared that it was unavoidable. If he knew who she was, then he had no reason to trust her. . . . He would have every right, in fact, to hate.

She sighed and sat down on her couch, waiting for the inevitable. She had come back here simply to bide her time till the man came to confront her, indeed, after 'Kita had finally been forced to go into work today; they had spent as long as possible, otherwise, in each other's arms.

She closed her eyes, remembering. God, it had felt so wonderful, was so beautiful to feel his love for her flowing through her body from his heart and soul; it washed away her pain, made all the degradations of the past float away from her, left them behind in insignificant ashes. She opened her eyes once more. To be back to this again, then, after such bliss, just seemed cruel.

She stood up, pacing slightly. Still, her life had never promised her anything beyond cruelty--had, in fact, proven to her that she deserved nothing else. What was coming for her, therefore, was indeed deserved--for what lay behind her at least, if not for the present.

She stood looking at one of her deceased beloved's paintings now, her mind drawn to the memories it evoked. Such delicate hands had wrought the horror and fear there, had shown so clearly the knowledge of inevitable calamity. Her fingers traced just over its surface, not quite touching it. If only she had seen the dangers as clearly then, it might have been prevented.

She closed her eyes for a moment, shaking her head, as she paced away, forcing her mind to change tracks once more. What was striking now, really, was how ironic this was. So often in the past she had deserved any amount of pain which had been dished out for her actions--willing or not. Now, however, she had no evil intentions, only wished to love and be loved without intrusion or insult; all she wanted was to lose herself in the most beautiful man ever born, to bury herself deep inside that loving heart, where no one could ever truly hurt her again.

She looked up, as her buzzer rang--the sign of her inevitable, quickly approaching, fate. That, though, was simply not to be; now, truly, her pain-filled destiny called for her. . . . She had no choice but to answer.

A few minutes later, then, she was opening the door to Walter. She let out a deep sigh, her eyes resigned, as she stepped back. "Come in."

He took her in and then looked around a little cautiously first. "Is Nikky here?"

She shook her head slowly, still opening the door wide. "No. They're no witnesses. Come in." She turned and left him behind her, as she walked slowly, further into her apartment.

He continued watching her for several seconds; there was something about her which made him want to trust her now, was a sense of desolated honesty to her. She was, too--he couldn't help but notice--strikingly lovely in a green silk kimono-style top and black pants--not really the style he had expected of her. He didn't know, of course, that she had been drawn to wear it as a symbol of her fears, by the memories of losing her now-dead beloved which this situation brought back to her. He definitely saw, once again, though, the beauty which might have attracted his nephew to her.

His mind, however, quickly came back to his purpose. He knew, indeed, that he just couldn't be too careful; looks, after all, were so often deceptive.

He drew his gun, holding it on her, as soon as he had closed the door. "I need some answers."

She shook her head, her back still turned. He could see that her eyes were focused nowhere near the slight reflection of the room in her picture window--and that she would mostly have blocked him from her own view; her words, then, surprised him. "You can put the gun away. I'll answer honestly without it." She turned back to him, allowing him to see her eyes.

To say that she unnerved him a bit would have been putting it mildly. It was everything: her captivating, unplanned beauty, her supernatural calm in the face of an enemy with a weapon, her knowledge that he was armed even without seeing him, and also just the absolutely lost look in her eyes now, as though she knew she had an appointment to be taken into her new home in the depths of Hell--and she was simply waiting for her demon escort. He just watched her for a second.

"You can search me, if you want," she offered calmly. She held her hands out to the sides.

He took her in cautiously. "I have a feeling you've got a few years--and a few dozen moves--on me."

She nodded, acknowledging his point; she gave him a new option, then. "Fine, then find something and tie me up, while you do it."

He looked deep in her eyes, surprised, once again, by her words. Jesus--she was serious; she really was ready to allow him to have complete control of her, it seemed, in order to make her point. He was beginning to trust her, if only slightly. . . . He just hoped his instincts were right.

He sighed, however--giving up on his fears somewhat, deciding to trust her, and withdrew his pistol. Her clothes were not obvious, after all--he reasoned, but they were tight enough to make the likelihood of her carrying a weapon fairly unlikely.

This last thought, though, didn't mean that he felt he was free to trust her entirely; he didn't want to let her get too close to anywhere she might find one, indeed. He directed her to an empty space. "Go sit by the window."

She nodded and followed his instructions, folding herself neatly onto the floor before it. It was going to be a cold place to sit in this weather--she knew, but there would be no warmth for her after this encounter, anyway--would be nothing without her beloved.

He watched her, while he approached her couch cautiously; he continued to keep an eye on her, while he checked for any explosives or devices near it, before sitting down slowly. He then took a small implement from his pocket and turned it on; it flashed green a second before a background humming sound began, shielding them from any would-be listeners.

She nodded, accepting his precaution. "I'm not being watched, that I know about."

He looked back to her, returning a deep, scrutinizing gaze. "Best to be cautious."

They both took a few seconds to look into each other, evaluating; Michelle went first. "What do you want to know?"

"Why are you here?"

"You mean, in this apartment, in this city, in this country, or in Nikita's life?"

His eyes still burned warningly. "Let's try all of the above."

She nodded. "You know who I am--who my parents are."

"Yeah, I've met your mother."

A very vague sort of ironic smile appeared on her lips, as she refocused on the floor. "I'm sorry."

It seemed an odd reaction to him. "I've heard about you, as well."

She let out a resigned breath; her smile faded. "I don't doubt it. I don't know exactly what you do, but if you're in anything like my parents' line of work, then there's no avoiding the stories of them. They wouldn't want anyone to be . . . unaware of their presence."

He let out a disgusted snort. "That's one way of putting it." She looked back up at him. "You aren't exactly lacking in notoriety yourself."

A look of infinite sadness came into her eyes, as she looked away once more. "Yes. They saw to that."

He let out a disgusted breath. He could see that she seemed to be genuinely despondent--that there even seemed to be, despite all the stories of how impossible it was to separate them, no love lost between herself and her parents--but he still wasn't quite having his question answered. "Why are you here?"

The sadness mutated further now, became a hundred-yard stare. She had already decided to answer anything he asked truthfully. There was little reason to hold back, indeed; her only hope of reprieve, for now, from Nikita's loss would be through him. "To escape."

He seemed a little confused. "From what?"

Her look continued, her voice soft but straightforward. "From them."

He shook his head. From the rumors, this wasn't at all what he had expected. "But you're one of them."

She closed her eyes tightly, a small shudder passing through her; he noted it, beginning to suspect that it wasn't her seat near the cold window which had caused it. She opened her eyes once more; something had gone up in her look--some wall erected to keep intruders out. "Not by choice."

He took another deep breath, trying to sort through the evidence before him--trying to use his own, usually accurate, senses to read her. "You're trying to tell me that you finding and going after Nikky has nothing to do with my work."

She shook her head slightly. "I don't even know what you do, besides what I've surmised. Nikita's never told me."

He let out a slight snort. "Nikita doesn't know."

He saw her eyes grow stronger, more intense. "Good."

Her answer, once again, surprised him; there was a little awe in his gaze now, as he continued to stare at her. "If you're really as innocent as you say, then why were you involved with all the things your parents did?"

She shook her head, her eyes closed for a second; he hadn't understood. "I didn't say I was innocent." Her eyes opened once more, her voice becoming softer--more reflective--for a single heartbeat. "No one I know in this business is innocent."

She looked up at him, needing him to see her honesty, even if she was convinced that she would still be forced to let Nikita go, no matter what. Maybe, at least, this man could save her beloved from knowing the worst of who she was, if she could convince him of the truth. "What I do mean is this: I love Nikita, and I found him by a slip of chance, one I never deserved."

He was following, so far--and believing. "What about your parents?"

Her eyes seemed to grow a little moist; she blinked twice, slowly--a determination to keep control coming into her look, as she went on. She was looking away again. "I never asked to be involved in my parents' business; that was their decision--one they made before my birth." She paused for a second to draw in a deep breath. "I helped them in what ways I was taught to," her voice grew softer once more, "but some of it I didn't do intentionally."

Her mind was swimming in terrible, scarring memories. She swallowed just slightly, as she concluded. "Some of it I was . . .," she stopped herself from incriminating her parents further, a hard-taught lesson; her voice grew to the slightest of whispers, as she finished, "I didn't know the consequences of at all."

He swallowed heavily, as well--his own memories taunting him. He supposed that it was possible, of course, that she had somehow gotten hold of his record, that she knew his own past and was playing for sympathy. He rather doubted, though, that many of the manipulations the people who controlled him had used to get his support actually existed in his official file. . . . Besides, there was just something about her, was a sense of absolutely raw honesty in her painful quiet which made him believe, as well.

She had won him, for the most part, then, through her honesty and her confessions, but he needed to know a few more details; his mind, indeed, was back once more to her reasons for being in America. "What are you going to do with Nikita if your parents find you?"

She took a deep, shuddering breath, before letting it out quietly, her eyes still focused on the floor. She didn't even want to think about it. "Pray," she replied softly.

He smiled slightly; he understood. "Are they looking for you actively?"

She nodded a little. "I believe so. I was their prize possession. They want me back."

His eyes were sadder now, his interest in--even his concern for--her piqued. "Will you go, if they do find you?"

She shook her head; her hundred-yard stare was tinged with a complete--and saddened--determination. "No. They'll have to kill me."

He swallowed slightly as he watched her, horrified at the dismal picture of life before him. "They would do that?"

She nodded again; her voice was barely a breath, but her look held complete certainty. "Yes."

He took a deep breath once more, trying to brace himself, as his mind worked back through several different facts. "This is why you've been teaching Nikky self-defense."

Her nod returned. "It is now. When I first met him," she shook her head--a soft breath of a laugh sounding from her, "it was a lot of things."

He nodded, as well, seeing her probable motives. She finally looked back at him, her own mind turning too. "How did you meet Mad'laine?" She had long ago been taught to speak of her mother only by name, especially to someone in their own business.

He rolled his eyes. "The usual, from what I've heard. She was looking for alliances. She wanted the people I work for, ideally, but I would do in a pinch."

Her sad gaze probed into him softly, her concern for him quietly evident. "Did she hurt you?"

He laughed a little, shaking his head. "Nah." The laugh rumbled in him further, for a second, as he remembered. "She scared the crap out of me, though."

She returned his laugh--more softly, as she focused on the floor once more. "That's one of her best talents."

He was surprised when he actually chuckled softly at this. Michelle, it seemed, did have a sense of humor buried under all of that surface calm and control.

He had to admit to himself--he was beginning to warm to her. He wanted to know just a few more things, though. "You ever kill anyone?"

He saw her humor disappear before him, her hundred-yard stare returned. "Not with my foreknowledge."

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. Been there, done that. He changed topics again. "Does Nikita know about all this?" He focused back on her.

Her stare seemed to be moving up to a thousand-yards now. "No."

"You gonna tell him?"

She shook her head, standing up; the urge to pace had become too great. "No. Not if I can avoid it." She took a few steps before looking back at him. "May I walk?"

"Huh?" It took him a second to remember that he had temporarily made her a prisoner in her own home; when he did, he nodded, waving his hand distractedly, before going back to his original train of thought. "Yeah, go ahead. He'd still love you, y'know." He wasn't sure why he felt the need to give this woman advice, of course, but her sadness and honesty had struck a chord in him, had made him feel too much.

She didn't believe him at all, despite what she felt were his good intentions; she was pacing in front of him slowly, her eyes determined. "No. He wouldn't."

He sighed, giving up. There was only so much pain you could break through at a time, after all.

She stopped before him on the second pass and stared into him deeply. "Do I have your permission to stay with him?"

Older, shocked blue eyes stared back at her--slightly aging mirrors of her beloved's. "Why do you think you need *my* permission?"

Her eyebrow went up slightly. "You have the gun."

He smiled a little, teasing her. "I know you've got one somewhere here, as well."

She nodded, not catching his humor. "Yes. But I wouldn't use it on you, unless you threatened Nikita."

His mood changed, his look a little furious. "I would never threaten him."

Her own gaze was completely straightforward. "I know."

He gave a snorting laugh and looked down. She did have a way of making her point.

"You still haven't answered my question."

He looked back up, breaking from his thoughts--taking a second to understand. "Huh? Yeah, I won't interfere."

The eyes which met his own were now incredibly gentle and grateful. "Thank you."

He nodded, dismissive, looking away. He wasn't really good with being thanked. "Yeah, yeah."

Her heart began to crawl slowly back out from the prison his arrival had forced her to hide it in. She understood, of course, that they weren't exactly friends, but they did both share two things: similar backgrounds and--more importantly--a fierce love for Nikita. That, indeed, was enough for now.

She approached him, therefore, on another topic entirely. "If you've given up your plans to shoot me, then, I'd like to talk to you about something else."

He refocused on her, his eyes curious. "What?"

She smiled slightly. "Nikita's Christmas present."

*********

Michelle spent much of the rest of her day pacing; the conversation with Walter had upset her equilibrium further than she would have liked to admit. For many weeks, after all, she had been able to tell herself to forget about the future, to ignore the desertion which was her inevitable fate. . . . Today, though, all of that had changed terribly. She took a deep breath. And the reminder had undone too much of her well-planned control.

She had always understood, of course, that--as soon as she was forced to reveal her past to Nik--he would leave. He was the most caring, understanding, and forgiving person she had ever known--but he would leave all the same. No one could possibly stay with her who knew the truth, not while respecting her, anyway--and Nik could never love anyone he didn't respect.

She finally forced herself to sit heavily on the sofa, stilling herself temporarily; her hands were clenched slightly, as she leaned her arms onto her knees, her gaze lowered. She had always known her fate, certainly, but today had brought it back to her far too clearly. Now, indeed, it felt too close, too threatening; around every corner, beyond every breath, she felt it coming closer--coming toward her with hungry talons outstretched to snatch away her happiness, to steal away her heart.

She gazed up at one of her deceased beloved's darker paintings, understanding it so clearly now. Yes, that was what was in store for her--disaster, pain. There was no escape, was no contingency. She would lose him; he would no longer be hers. . . . Now, too, it felt as though this terrible inevitability were practically upon her.

Her mind couldn't take much more of this thought; she swallowed heavily and forced her eyes away from the frightening vision of her life to come, lowering her gaze once more. She knew that her meeting with Nikita's uncle today had gone far better than she ever could have reasonably hoped; she had never imagined in a million years, indeed, that he would come to sympathize with her somewhat.

Still, she couldn't make herself believe the words he had given her, the pleasant lie he had told: that Nikita would understand her past, that he would still love her. Miracles like that did not happen. Love was temporary, when it came at all, . . . even when it bound your soul so completely to another's. That, truly, had been her entire life's message.

She knew, then, that there was no avoiding her fate, was no getting around it. She would, when it came, simply have to face it and move on, would have to survive for however long she was unfortunate enough to have her body last after its heat of life was stolen. . . . Sadly, too, that probably wouldn't be short enough for her comfort.

She looked back up around her. Still, this was her future--her eventual fate. Today, by some twist of chance, she had managed to avoid--no, to delay--it once again. Now, indeed, was her reprieve.

Her mind, then, changed course, took on a slightly brighter path. If, in fact, she would not yet be forced to walk the last mile, she would enjoy the time she had somehow been granted. She was going to take every opportunity from now on, indeed, to revel in her beloved. For however long they had left until the end would come, he was hers, truly. . . . And she would make him remember that every single night until their love's eventual demise.

Nik received the call at work from Michelle, telling him to take a cab over to her place later, that she wouldn't be into the bar tonight. The message was a little unusual for them, of course, but it was really her tone which had given him pause; it had hinted at an absolute sensuality and possession, her natural accent thickened in desire. His heart beat strongly once more just thinking back. . . . He had barely even been able to come up with an "Okay."

He gave a slight smile now, as he thought back to the night before. Lord, the things that woman could do to him. He had been walking around with the nerve-tingling remains of the sensations all day--had, in fact, been trying to make sure that his wrists were always hidden by his cuffs. He hadn't been too ready to explain why there were still slight bruises around them both.

He turned an inner smile into an outer one, as he gave another patron a drink and started on fixing the next batch for one of Gail's tables. Last night, really, had been one of those which made him almost wish that he were the sort of man who talked about such things; he had practically wanted to tell the whole world just how wonderful it had been. . . . Still, he was not that sort of man, and the world--no doubt--would not have taken his news in the correct way. Last night, after all, hadn't been simply sexual; none of his encounters with Michelle ever were. No, there was always much more to it than that.

His mind looked back now, remembering his past. There had never been another woman who had come anywhere close to Michelle, in any sense. There had been a relative number of lovers for him, many of them capable of the amazing--all of them wonderful, but none had ever been her. She was the only woman who even came close.

She, too, had opened something up inside him, something he had only half-realized was there. It wasn't that there hadn't been passion or fulfillment before her; there had been--much of it wracking. No, what was different with her was something else--was some door she had opened within him. No one else, really, had ever been able to even begin to unlock it; most, indeed, probably didn't even know it was there.

All of his other lovers, in fact, he thought again now--as amazing as they had been, had never known him in the way that she did. He had been tender and passionate and occasionally a little wild with them, but he had never been anything like what he always was with her.

He tried to turn another soul-happy smile outward, as he pondered this further. It was her, after all, who made him feel so completely right, who took away every conscious thought. No longer did he even stop for a second to think about what they were doing, about what they wanted; he just knew, as she did. They were in absolute synch--their every move, their every heartbeat coordinated. Nothing was planned or routine. Everything was always both spontaneous and soul-deep.

All of this, too, amazed him. He had done things with her he never had before, had shown her a side to himself which had previously frightened him--a side so beyond everything conscious that he had feared for both his own and his partner's safety too much to ever try to tap into it before. Now, though, he would do anything, would go anywhere, their mutual passion led. . . . And he found it hard to believe that he had truly had that much courage.

He sighed a little. He had already loaded Gail's tray up with her drinks and was working on a batch for Terry--as well as a few individual patrons, as well; the bar, indeed, was lively and loud, but--although he was making all the proper responses verbally--his mind wasn't even vaguely there, was too focused on his past. In all of his other sexual relationships, after all, there had quickly been a sameness, a routine; many times, of course, he had loved that routine, but the newness itself had always worn off within a few weeks.

In all of them, too, he had been--he supposed--a rather prosaic lover, had never been even vaguely "kinky." It wasn't that he suspected that his partners were unsatisfied; it was just that there hadn't been much variety, frequently because of him.

Some of them, certainly--his mind went on, had tried to include some, but he had just never been able to convince himself to go to many of the places they had wanted before. Sarah, or Jan--by that point, he supposed--in particular, had suggested a few things involving leather which had practically made his hair stand on end; she had been forced to run off with a "bad boy" finally in order to get what she wanted there. Others, too, had tried to get him to live a bit more on the wild side of life, but he had simply never felt comfortable enough to try any of the things they had wanted. . . . Sometimes, too, it had been the end of the relationship.

Of course, not everyone he had dated had needed the same thing. Gray, in fact--at the opposite extreme, had seemed to almost view sex as an unpleasant necessity of a relationship; she seemed, indeed, to feel almost guilty when she received any pleasure--and, he had noticed to his sadness, she usually took out that guilt on him the next day with some coldness.

Mentally, he was shaking his head, as he continued to remember. He would have liked to change her mind, for her own sense of mental health, of course, but she just hadn't wanted--or been ready--to change. In the end, then, he had ceased the sexual side of things between them and had simply held her instead. That, at least, hadn't interfered with whatever mental blocks she had long ago had erected in her mind.

He shook his head just a little now, as he served another couple of beers--trying to bring his mind back onto his earlier track. Everything, indeed, had changed in him with Michelle; everything was different. He had once been a little afraid of where his desires might lead him, of what he might do. She, though, had shown him more than once that he wasn't capable of causing pain--and, especially given the fears he had gained from watching his mother's brutal relationships, it was a lesson he would never stop being grateful to her for.

His thoughts continued to center on his beloved. It wasn't, of course, that he was more interested in the sexual side of their relationship than in any others, wasn't that he considered it the most important; indeed, it was because he adored her so strongly, was because he could no longer imagine life without her love and her strength, without her subtle humor and her incisive mind, that he was so in need of what their sensuality gave him.

It was, truly, in the aftermath of their passion that their bond was most obvious, too. There was a way that they held each other then which couldn't quite be put into words, was an absolute tenderness in those moments which spoke to his soul. His desire for her, then, might be absolutely primal and gargantuan, but it fed solely on his love. Without that, he knew, they would have been able to share none of the ecstasy they had. It, indeed, was too ethereal to be fed by anything less than God.

He loved this truth, of course; he gave a contented sigh, as his mind traced back to a previous path. Last night, however, had gone even beyond those lessons she had taught him before; then, indeed, he had learned something further. What they had done last night hadn't simply been about trusting himself; it had been about trusting someone else, as well--which, he supposed, he had never been very good at before, on the most intimate levels of his life. His beautiful Michelle, truly, was the first person he had ever trusted enough to give absolute control to; she was the only one he had ever *wanted* to allow to have that much power.

He smiled once more. Now that he had, too, he felt freer than ever before, felt a sense of peace--knowing that some damage to his soul that his brutal past had dealt him had finally been put to rest, at least as much as such things ever were. He felt more open and alive than ever before in his life. . . . And he had never, never been happier.

He snuck a look at the clock, as he served another few drinks and shared in a joke or two with those around him. His mind, indeed, was still elsewhere. Just another hour or so, and he would be with his beloved one once more. . . . Whatever it was she had in store for him tonight, too, he was certain that he would adore every single second of it.

About an hour and a half later, then, Nik finally arrived at her door. She was ready for him, too--had been warned by the doorman, on her instructions, that he was coming up. She watched on the viewscreen beside her door, then, as he made his way down the hall. When he was finally there, she opened it.

Nik swallowed hard upon seeing her. To say that she was dressed with seduction in mind would have been putting it mildly. She had on a short, green, embroidered kimono--the same one he hadn't seen her in earlier that day--which only came to the very tops of her now-bare thighs; it was almost open, as well, hinting at just enough of her beautiful flesh to make his heart nearly stop. The fact that the color of it brought out the deep, intense, and now ultra-sensual green of her eyes was truly the least of its effect.

"Come in," she said quietly, beginning to close the door.

He snapped back to himself just enough to follow the order, as she closed out the world behind him. She locked it quietly and turned back to him, her lips open in a way which had always made his heart stutter; her eyes were alight.

It took him almost another minute to find his voice; when he did, it was husky and soft. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack in that?"

Her lips formed into a knowing smile. "You like it?" Her eyes ran heatedly down his body; his coat was open, and her gaze landed firmly on the growing bulge in his jeans. Her smile widened, as she met his eyes once more. "Yes, I see that you do."

His heart was pounding so hard he could practically hear it reverberating around the room; his ever-thickening shaft was becoming nearly painful in its confines. He could only look at her with incredible reverence and desire. "Mi-chelle," was all he managed to get out.

Her smile widened again, as her hands ran under his coat, pushing it back off his shoulders to fall in a heap on the floor; he shuddered. "No words," she ordered quietly. He almost opened his mouth to speak, but she caught his lower lip in her teeth, pulling at it gently, until it left her mouth; she licked at it with her tongue. "You'll do what you're told." Her eyes left no room for bargaining.

He shuddered again. He was so desperate for her touch, was so desperate to touch her, that he could barely stand another second of waiting.

He had always enjoyed at least fairly lengthy foreplay before, of course, loved the moans and sighs he could elicit in his partner, loved to be the subject of willing exploration himself. All of this, too, applied even more strongly to his beloved.

Now, however--God help him, he wasn't sure he would have objected if she had demanded that he just take her right now. He had a very vivid fantasy, indeed, of simply leaning her back against the door and taking her until she was whimpering in pleasure and love. . . . Lord, if she didn't touch him further soon, he might die.

He nodded, agreeing to whatever she had in mind. Her sensual smile deepened again. "Good." She began to unbutton his shirt, her eyes alight. "You're my favorite plaything, Ni-ki-ta." She licked along the stubbled underside of his jaw and felt his breathing snag near her; she bit him there happily before facing him once more. "You'll learn that again tonight."

His breathing was ragged, his eyes desperate with longing for her alone. Her hands had reached the bottom of his shirt, pulling it from his jeans; they ran inside it, stroking up his chest, before moving around to his back.

His breathing included little, uncontrollable moans. She leaned into him further, her tongue and lips tracing along his stubbled cheek; he could feel the hints of her skin against him through her open kimono.

A deep groan rumbled from him. . . . He wanted her so badly he ached.

Her lips moved to his ear, biting the lobe--causing him to let out a quaking groan of need. "Unbutton your cuffs," she ordered. He reached around her, as she moved her teeth in small bites down his neck, and followed her orders, a little shakily.

God, he tasted good. Everything about him made her insane with need--the scent of his skin, the feel of his strong body against her, the absolute desire and love which shone from those bright blue eyes. She shuddered a little and gave a harder bite at a sensitive spot near the base of his neck before giving him his next order; she was absolutely addicted to him, would never get enough. "Now take it off."

He continued to do what he was told, his heart pounding wildly. "Mi-chelle," he moaned, as he felt her nibbling over his shoulder. Lord, she just made him wild.

Her teeth moved to one of his neck's most sensitive spots, and she began to attack it in a way which left him without breath. He was gasping, as he held her to him strongly, shaking against her. His shaft was so desperate for her now it hurt being held back.

After nearly a minute, she finally let go of him, lifting her head. "I told you--no words." Her eyes warned. "Don't disobey me again."

He shuddered against her and nodded. His eyes gave up everything resembling control--allowed her permission to do anything she desired to him.

Her smile contained a bit of sympathy this time, telling him, as well, that his trust was well-founded. The tenderness of it disappeared, however, as she drew him into a deep, hot, and soul-binding kiss--a kiss which was practically sexual itself, a melding of heated tongues.

He quaked against her. He wasn't at all certain how he would survive this--and definitely wasn't certain that he could keep from saying her name. It, after all, was nearly a prayer for him--was so filled with desire and love that there was no other word which could encompass its meaning half so well.

Still, he would never object to this; she wanted his fealty here, and he had no desire--no ability--to resist. He was her slave, her utter captive--and he would never try to break free.

He was responding to her wildly and absolutely in the kiss; it practically undid her. His need for her was so palpable--was so obvious and raw. . . . God, she wanted him so badly.

Her hand pulled out the band which held back his long hair, letting it fall freely around his shoulders; she loved the feel of it on her fingers, loved the scent of it in her lungs. She could feel his imprisoned shaft throbbing desperately against her through his jeans, as well, and her desire spiked further at the thought. She was half afraid of what she would do to him in her need, but she wouldn't turn back. Until the day he turned away from her, he was hers to do with as she wanted. . . . He would begin, then, to learn that tonight.

He felt her nails rake very lightly over his back, in a move of absolutely feral insinuation. He moaned desperately and broke from the kiss, panting.

His eyes were wide, begging. She smiled a wild smile at him, one which promised him no quarter. "Soon," she assured him. She leaned in to him again and gave him another deep, intense kiss.

She broke from it only a few seconds later, however, as her mouth began to travel down his skin, tasting the man who was her treasure. He was shaking in response, as well, as he felt her lips descend him again, working down his neck once more. Her nails were still teasing his skin, as he held her to him desperately, moaning.

Oh, she adored this. "God, I love you," she moaned, before she trailed her tongue down his breastbone. His heart pounded near her. She moved over to begin lapping at a small, hard nipple. "You taste so good."

His moan was deep and desperate, his love for her absolute. She took the small bud in her mouth, suckling him hard, and he leaned his head back to groan brokenly, a tear running down his face. No words would ever express his aching love for her alone.

She stayed there for several minutes, making his need for her shake within him; she knew everything she was doing to him--understood it completely and adored it. If she had her way, by the time she took him, he would be screaming and nearly beyond human thought. She wouldn't be letting him go tonight.

The fierce need in him continued to grow stronger--rushing through him more demandingly, as she let his nipple go with a small lick. She then gave a tiny bite to the other, causing a quaking groan to rise from him, before she licked over it, too, and began to move her way further down.

He felt her moving that amazing mouth of hers down his stomach, as she lowered herself to her knees before him, and he trembled further; her mouth placed a wet, heated kiss against his imprisoned shaft, and it jumped nearly painfully. Another tear of need joined the first, as he moaned again.

Her hands ran down his legs to find his shoes, and she took a minute to remove one, along with his sock; he was bracing his hands against the door, was barely able to stand. Her hands caressed the tender skin there knowingly, running her nail lightly along the arch. She saw his desperate shaft twitch once more, and she gave it a tender kiss, before repeating her pattern with his other foot.

His eyes were closed, both hands leaning him against the door. His legs were becoming useless; his desire was wracking, desperate. He was going to be in absolutely unbearable pain if she didn't release him soon.

She knew this, of course, and gave his imprisoned cock one more tender kiss, before her hands went to the waistband of his jeans. She heard his breathing snag further and smiled.

Her mouth, then, traced from his navel down the line of darker hair which led to his lovely shaft, as she began to release him. Finally, she had freed him from his clothes, letting them fall to his feet; she helped him step out of them carefully.

She examined the lovely result of her work now; his shaft was so long, thick, beautiful, and desperately hard and aroused. She leaned in to him and kissed along it, tasting along it with her tongue, and he let out a little crying moan.

Lord, he was gorgeous. Her hand stroked along his length, adoring the erotic power of him in her grasp.

He moaned desperately above her. He was shaking with the effort to stand up at all, even propped as he was; he could barely withstand any more arousal from her. He felt her take the head of his cock in her mouth and suckle him softly, and he practically clawed at the wood of her door. . . . He wanted her so badly he ached.

She felt his desperation, of course, and looked up at him finally to see the beautiful arch of him above her. His body was so sleek and strong, was perfectly displayed for her in this moment. It was sculpted, was made to be touched and loved. Every muscle and nuance of him was a delight to the senses--all of them. He was a meal, was a feast, . . . and tonight she planned to gorge herself to the point of gluttony.

His eyes were still closed, as she smiled up at him. "Stand, my Ni-ki-ta," she ordered quietly.

He opened his tear-filled, loving eyes and did so, a little shakily. She smiled at him further, standing as well, and began to make a slow circle around his body, taking him in. "Mmm," her hand reached out to stroke around his waist and lower back. "You're quite perfect, my love." She stood back in front of him, her smile still incredibly sensual. "Go lie on the couch, my one."

He wanted to follow her order, was desperate to continue to be the object of her devotion, but he wanted one thing more than any other in that second. . . . But he wasn't allowed to speak enough to ask.

She knew, though, of course. She smiled tenderly at him and then pulled him into a deep, commanding, and loving kiss, a kiss which held absolute erotic promise.

He let out a soft sigh through it, as he held her to him in it. His soul was hers absolutely; he was hers to control.

God, she loved this. She continued the kiss for several more long heartbeats, before she let him go. He was shivering against her when she did.

Her feral smile returned. "Go lie down," she repeated.

He pulled her to him to give her one more tender kiss, before capturing her eyes lovingly again. He then smiled and did as he was told.

She walked over toward him slowly. Her eyes ran down from the heated gaze she shared with him to run a trail of desire along his entire form; she then caught his eyes once more. "You have a body which was made to be loved, Ni-ki-ta." Her hand stroked lightly over his calf, as her smile grew more tender. "You have a soul which was born for nothing else."

His eyes shone back his promise of eternal devotion. He loved her so deeply there were just no words to even begin to express it.

She returned his feelings completely. She wanted, too, to be able to commune with the incredible form which held his soul until both of them ached from the crushingly-tight embrace of their spirits. She wanted to be his fantasy, to be his only desire. She wanted the light of absolute need in his eyes to be undeniable. . . . And she wanted it all right now.

Her hands, then, traced down the collar of her kimono, until they reached the sash she had tied around it. She loosened it, before stroking the fabric softly off her shoulders--revealing herself slowly; it fell into a forgotten puddle on the carpet.

He let out a desperate moan with the sight of her; his eyes were lapping her into himself, were drinking her deep. God, he wanted to devour her, to make love to her until everything which vaguely resembled reason between them disappeared.

She smiled at him further--loving his look--as she came over to the couch. She moved onto it, straddling over his thighs; her fingers trailed slow, heated lines over his chest and abdomen. "Do you want me, Nikita?"

He let out a shudder below her, his eyes so loving and needy. "Yes."

She leaned down to him, stroking her tongue over his lips and then dipping it slightly inside, kissing him briefly but definitively before leaning back. "No words." He nodded shakily, moaning.

Her eyes were trailing along his strong shoulders, were tracing down his perfect chest. She was leaning back, as well, to give him a good view of all the parts he loved to touch. "I want you to need me to the point of breaking, my love." Her eyes stroked back to his. "I want your desire to shake within you so strongly that you can't stand another second apart from me."

She had forbade him to speak, but his eyes told her his response, told her of his absolute devotion, as she continued. Her hands were now trailing near his hips, were close enough to his shaft to make it ache further for her touch; her eyes were stroking down him again. "Even if you wanted me to the point of insanity, though, it would never match what I feel for you." She caught his gaze undeniably once more. "Never."

His eyes were begging her to let him speak. There was so much he wanted to say, were so many things he wanted to tell her--his love, his desire, his absolute, eternal devotion to her alone. His lips were open, trembling.

She put her finger over them, stroking along them softly, as he shuddered with her touch. "Ssh. No words." She grazed her finger over the tip of his tongue for a second before bringing it back to her own mouth and beginning to suckle it deeply. "Mmm." She closed her eyes.

He was trembling beneath her by the time she finally removed her finger; her eyes opened to meet his once more. "I love your taste." Her eyes stroked down herself. "Would you like to taste me, my love?"

He wanted to scream his answer, but instead he just let out a deep, desperate groan, tears of need in his eyes. She smiled gently at him and nodded.

He felt her invisible restraints on him break in that second, and he took full advantage--began to explore the desperate needs which she had been brewing in him for lifetimes. He sat up, his arms surrounding her, hands strong but erotically tender, as his mouth began to trace down the side of her face, moving in a warm trail down her neck.

He was shuddering against her, as his mouth devoured her softly; she could feel its need sinking into her through her flesh. God, it was wonderful--all of it. The warmth of that perfect, talented tongue, the subtle, ache-inducing touch of his teeth was causing her to melt.

Her control was slipping, was falling from her grasp at the way he transferred his absolute desire for her through her skin. She had worked, this whole night, to make him want her, to have him desperate in his need. With just the sight of him, though--with just his smallest exploration of her skin, she was his irreversibly, was so in need for him she was practically in tears.

The raw pain of all of her fears had come back to her now, was begging to be soothed. "Oh God, 'Kita," she begged, "love me. Just, please, love me."

He felt the balance of power shift between them, felt her soul reaching out for the comfort only he could provide her. He took hold of her offer, ready to give her everything she needed, ready to love her to the point of both madness and sanity. She had never needed to try in order to arouse him, in order to make him want her; that was the permanent condition of his soul--it was irreversible.

He leaned her back onto the soft sofa, then, configuring both of their long bodies onto it in a passionate array; his tongue and teeth were wreaking erotic havoc on the delicate skin of her neck. "I do love you, Michelle," he whispered softly between his devotions. "I do."

He had lain her back against a pillow on one end of the couch now. His hands were massaging a smooth warmth into her back; his mouth was beginning to explore further down between her breasts.

She closed her eyes, lost to the sensations only he alone could give her. "Touch me, 'Kita," she begged. "Please touch me."

He moaned with every small lick over her delicate skin. Everything about her made him quake with need, made him shudder with it. . . . He had to taste her further.

His mouth, then, to their mutual delight, traced its way up one perfectly-weighted breast. She was not a large woman, but she wasn't tiny either; every nuance of her, in fact, made him feel as though her body was simply crying to be tasted. Everything in him ached for that.

With a need that came from his soul, then, he covered her nipple, taking it deep into his mouth; it was firm and needy, was waiting to be loved by him. Her hands, too, were deep in his hair, were holding him close--begging for more, as she let out small, crying moans beneath him; he grazed his teeth over her, and she shuddered wildly.

God, this felt *so* good. "Oh . . . yes," she moaned, holding him to her more strongly; his teeth enclosed her in just the way she needed, and she let out a desperate moan, her body shaking against him. There was both such devotion and such desire in his touch; he was so tender and so absolutely passionate. She just needed him so much.

The warm sounds of desire she was giving beneath him made every cell in his body feel sharp with need. He could feel the honey of her against him, too, and he was aching with the desire to love her, to make love to her, until she moaned and gasped beneath him. He wanted her pleasure so much he wasn't certain he could wait even another second for it.

He let go of her lovely nipple for a moment, then, and looked up at her. His hands were at her hips, his heavy, throbbing cock teasing near her entrance; his eyes were begging her.

She closed her eyes for a second, lost in her need--understanding him completely. "Yes," she begged. Her gaze met his once more, as her hands traced down to his soft curves. "Oh God, yes."

He saw her need and her permission and practically shook with his own. He leaned in to capture her in a loving, needy, but tender kiss, then, as the large tip of his lovely length finally began to enter her.

She broke from the kiss to gasp happily, her eyes closed. It didn't matter that they had made love practically every day for two months now--frequently more than once; every time he entered her, it was still a revelation, was a prayer of joy. As perfect as he was and as quakingly as he fulfilled her, there would just never be enough of him for her.

He couldn't have described the feeling of entering her, but it was something more than holy, more than perfection, more than need, more than love. It was a feeling which called to his most spiritual longings while also calling upon his most absolutely atavistic of needs. It made him animal and angel in one--and he could never have enough of it.

His hands were bracketing her hips, his fingers sinking into her soft curves; her own were buried in his. They both, then, were pulling him deep inside her, inch by quaking, perfect inch--the head of his cock making a path deep within her perfect, silken walls.

"God," she let out softly, her eyes still closed. He just felt so right, felt so good; her absolute, feral need for him was rising in her--was making her ache for him alone.

He knew her feelings and returned them completely--was so hungry it made him moan. His hot mouth was seeking a trail down her neck, was tasting every bit of flesh which came into its path, was trying to help him hold his desire to ravish her immediately in some kind of check.

The feel of his hot mouth trailing down her made her give screaming moans. She was so hungry and in need; her nails were digging into his soft curves slightly, as she pulled him further into her. She wanted him to take her without apologies or questions, wanted to be burned absolutely in his desire.

His thick shaft was far into her now, was stretching her to his intense proportions once more. He was half-convinced that he was bruising her curves with his fingers, with his desire.

She, though, wasn't complaining--was marring his own with her nails, as she begged him for more. . . . It just felt so good.

Oh God, he couldn't stand much more. His mouth moved down to the breast he had ignored before, began suckling her almost roughly. "Yessss!" she cried out; her back was arching in need.

He was groaning against her skin, as his cock entered her more deeply, as he pulled even more of himself far into her lovely, clinging depths. She cried out in need, and he trembled slightly. . . . He couldn't take much more, before he broke.

He had filled her completely, but his entry wasn't over yet. Every cell in her body seemed to be reaching for him, aching for his touch. She wanted every last inch of that perfect cock deep within her--and she wanted him to be rough.

"More," her voice ground out beneath him. Her head was back, as her body arched into him; her nails were pulling him further in, begging for more.

He let out a deep, desperate groan. He couldn't wait another second to be inside her.

He ran his teeth up over her nipple, flicking the end with his tongue, as he raised his head to look at her. He could see the tension and need in her form, could see her absolute desire, and he moaned loudly.

He lowered his head to her neck, then--her permission granted, and began to bite little spots of need into her flesh, as his hands came up to grasp her shoulders. Then, in one long, continuous stroke, he pushed the rest of his thick length deep inside her, sinking himself into her to the base.

She jerked against him slightly, as she screamed out in desire. Her hands came up--one grabbing hold of his shoulder, one caressing his head--begging for more of his needy attention to the soft flesh of her neck. He bit her again, and she groaned loudly.

God, he felt *so* good. Her heels were digging into his curves, were holding him deep. She could feel every incredible inch of his lovely cock buried far inside her, pressed hard against her core. Her body was so strung out on need she was crying slightly, was aching with her desperate hunger for him alone.

He shared it, of course. She just felt so good, *so* incredible, as her soft, soft walls clung to him, caressed him deep within her.

His hunger was making him weak, was making his need absolutely dangerous. He had lost track of everything tender in himself; he simply wanted to ride her until she screamed.

She let out a desperate moan, knowing that his desires matched her own, that his needs were utterly fierce. She had no interest anymore in kindness; she wanted the animal in him, wanted to know that--even at his most visceral level--his need existed only for her. She wanted proof that was irrefutable, that neither of them would ever forget.

He had stopped nibbling her neck and was now poised with his cheek near hers, his breathing ragged. She felt his need and decided to play on it, to taunt the beautiful, golden-maned lion above her until he savaged her erotically.

Her nails were scratching along his shoulder lightly, her other hand lost in his hair, as she kissed his cheek. "Yes, 'Kita, yes." Her teeth found his earlobe, and she nibbled on it strongly for several seconds, while he growled. "Give yourself to me, my love--no more excuses, no more fears." She found a delicate spot on his neck and nibbled it roughly for several seconds; she felt his shaft jump heavily within her, and she moaned deep in her throat. . . . God, that felt good.

He was shaking furiously near her; she could feel how close he was to breaking. She bit him more roughly before letting him go, leaning back to meet his eyes. "I'm yours, 'Ki-ta." Her teeth grazed over his lower lip. "Claim me."

Her last words finally did him in. The fierce blue of his eyes seemed to ignite, to explode into an inferno, into a dark, storm-heavy sky, flashing with lightning. "You asked for it," he growled at her.

She let out a sigh of pleasure, as his devastation began. One hand tangled in her hair, as he took her in a hot, ravaging kiss; the fingers of the other held onto her soft curves, as he began to give her incredibly deep, short, high-friction strokes, manipulating her deepest core with an expertise born of uncontrolled desire.

She whimpered desperately beneath him. She wasn't sure she had ever felt this open, this utterly soft and vulnerable before; certainly she had never felt this way and enjoyed it. Now, however, "enjoy" would have been *far* too soft a word. She was lost, in love, and felt more absolutely desired than ever before. . . . Nothing else had ever felt quite so right.

He felt her surrender to him, and something within him sparked even further. He had never before been given quite such utter control by her, had never had her simply give herself up to his care. It was a feeling of such sharpened, intense desire that he could barely stand it.

He knew, of course, that he would prove worthy of her trust, but he was determined, as well, to grab absolute hold of this opportunity, to teach her the undeniable joys of simply allowing yourself to receive, with no thought whatsoever of giving. . . . It was a lesson, part of him realized, for which she was long past due.

She was gasping beneath him, as she felt both of his hands take hold of her hips. His amazing, soul-sparking little thrusts continued, stroking over her core in a way which made it quake practically to the point of igniting.

His kiss was still deep and commanding, but she had no attention left for it anymore. He, then, continued to play with the lovely features of her mouth, while she was gasping and arching in mounting joy.

The strokes of his cock within her grew slightly rougher now. It felt like her core was sparking, the dazzling frisson of it trailing through the whole of her body, making her quake.

God, it felt good. Her head was thrown back, as her gasps turned into groans, which were growing steadily into screams. Her nails were digging into his shoulders, as she arched against him.

Her depths were wrapped perilously-tight around his hard, heated length. God, she felt good; he was absolutely addicted to her now, was in the most feral need for the look of wracking, arching devotion in her taut form, in her pleasure-molded features. "Mmm," he moaned. He had never felt so right before, so feral and alive. Every time with her had been special and amazing, of course, but now he felt as though he had just discovered a part of himself he had long ago--perhaps lifetimes ago--hidden away. . . . And there was no way he was letting go of it now.

He kissed the side of her face, as her whimpering screams grew louder. "God, you're beautiful like this," he whispered huskily; she let out a screaming moan.

He bit a soft spot on her neck, before continuing his feral words. She was arching herself desperately into his deep thrusts. "I love that you take it so well from me."

That was it, was all she could withstand. Her whole body was shaking, her nails digging deep into his shoulders. She had never felt quite like this, had never experienced herself so completely as the absolute plaything of another devouring, loving soul. Her whole body was arching for its final impact.

"Mmm," he moaned again, kissing her cheek. "Good."

He began then the most achingly erotic, relentless rhythm within her she had ever experienced. He was stroking, it seemed, into and through her entire body--seemed to take up everything within her, body and soul. His lips, too, were a tender counterpoint to the fierceness of his lovely, long shaft, as they traced softly down her face. . . . She had never felt more loved, more desired, or more utterly, hopelessly in need.

He felt it, as she reached the place where he wanted her to be, felt her body's little spasm against his, heard her moaning gasp, experienced every soft, tight, caressing millimeter of her slick walls beginning to tremble. His hand traced up the back of her arm, pulling it from around him, running down until he reached her hand; he took hold of it gently, wrapping their fingers together, as she clung to him.

His lips, too, traced to her ear, his words a hot breath there, as his other hand held her to him, grinding himself deep against the sparkling perfection of her core. "I love you, Michelle," he breathed. His cock pressed even deeper.

She arched against him, screaming, as she came; her nails were sinking into his shoulder. Something within her had ignited wildly, the fireworks now singing and sparking throughout her soul.

There had never been anything else which had felt half as good. Her heels dug into his curves, keeping him deep inside her, as her depths massaged him deep within her core; she could feel his every throbbing inch, buried to the base. Her fingers clung to his, too, as his hand wrapped around hers. A roaring heat of utter fulfillment was flooding her every cell.

She was shaking now, tears flowing steadily, as he kissed her face softly. His other hand was half in her hair, half on the side of her face, caressing her. His hair flowed down around him, creating a veil around their faces, sheltering them both.

She had never come close to experiencing anything similar, despite all of the passion, love, and fulfillment he had shown her before. Now, indeed, there was something else, something she was certain she had never known before: protection. She felt safe in his love, felt precious in his desire; she could imagine no harm coming to her, could imagine nothing which would ever hurt their union.

It was the most amazing revelation of her life. Nikita, indeed, had arrived in her frightened, paranoid, and claustrophobic existence and shown her life and love--had led her back to a bright light she had missed in this world before. Some tiny part of her mind knew that the feeling would end, of course, but it was just too magical to let go of before she was forced. . . . She had never before felt so whole.

"I love you," she breathed to him, her entire soul in the words. He smiled and kissed her cheek again, as he shook slightly against her. He could feel her every emotion, as it coursed into his heart, could experience her every revelation. He had never before felt so deeply the meaning of his life; he had never before been so in love.

She never truly came back from the place he had taken her, then, but--after quite a long space of time there, she did begin to register something outside of it once more. Once she did, as well, he started to stroke through her slowly again, setting alight all of the burning desire which had just been so thoroughly sated.

The feeling began to ache in her, began to take her over. Her previous, still lingering, release had been quaking, as she had clung to the definition of her soul he provided. This time, though, her need was more commanding, was even more intense.

He felt the shift in her and opened himself to it. There was absolutely nothing they did in union which he regretted for an instant.

He could sense her feral side growing, taking her over, then, and he welcomed it. He could imagine nothing lovelier than being savaged by his beloved.

He wasn't surprised, either, when--a few seconds later, he was on his back, Michelle having pushed him off of her and then over onto the other half of the sofa--herself now on top. The deep, loving, only slightly lighter, blue of his eyes shone up at her.

"Yes," he whispered. He took her hands and ran them over himself. "Take me, my beautiful one." He felt her tighten her soft walls around him, her eyes flashing warning, and he groaned in need--his head back, eyes closed. "Take me now," he begged.

God, yes; this was what she needed. Her hands explored his broad, muscular chest, as she let out a groan of need. The hunger in her was desperate and devouring; there might be nothing left of him when she was done--but she was damn sure that they would both enjoy it.

God, he wanted her. He rolled his hips up at her, stroking himself deep inside her, and her nails raked over him lightly. He groaned loudly and looked back at her. "Yes," he begged again.

She moved her soft walls up his shaft before going back down deeply on him. He closed his eyes once more, leaning his head back to groan desperately. "You like that?" she asked knowingly. Her nail flicked past his nipple.

God, did he. He was arching at her, his groans deep. "Yes," he pleaded huskily.

A small smile appeared on her lips; Lord, she wanted him like this. "Good," she growled.

She leaned forward, then, her mouth finding the delicate spots on his neck, tormenting them once more, and he shuddered beneath her. She was riding up and down along him in deep, hungry strokes, as his hands balled in her hair; he was moaning, begging for more.

She felt like she was losing her mind in desire, like she might just come apart in it. Part of her, in fact, was afraid that she would hurt him, but her body was hungry, her need demanding; she just no longer cared what happened so long as he pleaded with her for more.

She was stroking down onto him in sharp, deep thrusts--was forcing his long cock to hit the same needy spot within her each time. She could feel his mindless devotion to the sensation with every strike, too.

She moaned in desire. His need was making her even more hungry; her teeth moved down further, before she began licking her way down his desire-sheened chest. "I love how you take it from me," she growled.

His hands were deep in her hair, as he screamed out for more; he pulled her over to a small, needy bud. "Please," he begged.

She licked her tongue over it very softly, taunting him; the way, the rhythm in which, she was taking him into her own body was ruthless. "Please what?"

He was meeting her strokes desperately, was lost to every insane thrust. "Be rough."

She acceded to his request with a growl, her teeth capturing him, playing with him without mercy. Her tongue stroked over the end, while the nail of her thumb played with the bud's twin.

He was screaming below her now, lost and in such need. Everything she did felt so good, felt so right; she could make his soul feel so bright, so perfect. . . . God, he wanted more.

His hands came down to take hold of her hips, then, and he began to run her over him more roughly, more tightly. She screamed in absolutely feral need and tossed her head back, her eyes shut. "Yes!" she cried out, a growl following it.

He watched her with passion-filled, desperate eyes. Her face was a mask of wild joy, of unspeakable desire; her body was wracked with anticipation, was waiting for the explosion which was approaching her.

She was trembling. Lord, it felt too good. It just all felt too good. She was poised on the edge, was waiting for the fierce sparkling of light within her to explode into an inferno of pleasure.

She was arched and desperate, was waiting for her joy with a wild impatience. . . . God, he loved watching her, loved the feeling of her tight, slick depths, as she rode him deep.

His hands began to run her over himself even more strongly, and he watched while she moaned in pleasure and need. He let out a small growl and rolled his hard length into her even more ruthlessly, watching her convulse slightly in response.

That, though, was the last thing he could stand. Everything in him was on the edge, was about to explode. His shaft was huge, was heavy and aching with the coming light.

He leaned up, then, and took her tightly in his arms. "*Yes*," she growled out against him. She kissed down the side of his neck, tasting the sweat of his skin. "Oh God, yes."

He was shaking slightly, was so in love that it caused an ache deep within him that they weren't an absolute whole. He would never, in any lifetime, stop needing or loving her.

He held her closer still, then, almost perilously so; he couldn't let her go if he had tried. His whole soul was set to explode deep within her.

They were so close. His hand cupped the back of her head, as he kissed her cheek. He had to tell her his soul's undying truth. "God, I love you," he moaned.

Everything in her seemed to cease with the words, as the explosion of light began. "'Ki-ta," she whispered, burying her face in his neck. He gave her one more deep stroke, and she came wildly--with his scent in her lungs, with her hands clinging to his sweat-soaked skin and hair.

He felt the joyful release begin in her and let out a sighing, moaned, "oh, yes." Then, he buried his face in her neck and stroked the whole of his length far into her, deep within her core, experiencing the tight, trembling embrace of her depths, as he came deep, deep inside her intense, silken caress.

Her trembling quadrupled when the aching light of his warmth was released far within her. It was too much, gave her an absolute ecstasy of body and soul. "God," she whispered, as her hand reached up to cup his head, her own raising to kiss his cheek softly.

"Michelle," he sighed, trembling; he was still caught in a total rapture. He could feel his soul mingling with hers, could feel their total embrace.

He let out a small, shaky, sighing moan of pleasure. He would never let her go, he knew; it would never happen. It had taken him so many years to finally find such total joy. . . . No one would ever rob him of it again.

Many, many minutes later, they both finally raised their heads to look into each other's teary, loving eyes. There were no words to say, were none which needed to be said. They joined together, then, in a deep, soft kiss--one of confirmation, of union.

She sighed through it in love and held him closer. She knew he would leave her one day, knew she couldn't prevent it, but she understood something else now too; on some level, indeed, he would always be hers.

This last fact, of course--her mind was well aware, would not always be a physical one. Perhaps, truly, he would find someone else after her, someone more worthy of him; perhaps, he would start the family with that fortunate woman which she herself couldn't give him--but, she knew as well, that somewhere, in some part of him, she would exist--she would never disappear. . . . And that beautiful fact alone, then, would be enough to let her keep her heart.

*********

It was amazing how much could change without you noticing, how many little shifts in life could take place so gradually that they were already over before you realized they had begun. This, indeed, was how he was beginning to think of the last month. Like continental drift, the shifts were too slow-moving to notice instantly, but in the long run, . . . whoa.

Still, none of this quite kept the slightly dopey grin off of Nik's face, as he cleaned off a glass behind the bar. Maybe it was just the Santa Claus hat which Julie had unceremoniously dumped on his head. . . . How dour, really, was it possible to be with one of these?

He looked up around him, sizing up the revelers he saw. Part of his happiness, too--however, was caused by the fact that many of the shifts had been good ones. It had been less than a month since he had pondered all of his friends in depth at their shared Thanksgiving dinner, but a lot of the changes he had suspected then were beginning to come true now. And a lot of them, indeed, he liked.

He changed the glass in his hand for a mug and drew a beer for a co-ed who was heading his way--a regular. It was almost final call on Christmas Eve, one of the few days of the year that Julie's closed up early; he wasn't sure why this particular woman was still in town, really, but he guessed she must be from the area.

She gave him a wide grin, as she took the drink, her eyes taking him in none too subtly. His "fan club" had lain off him slightly since he had begun to see Michelle--partly, he suspected, because his beloved could look distinctly territorial when she wanted to--but they still came in, nonetheless. . . . Michelle, now, would just give them knowing glances.

This particular "fan" tried to engage him in a short conversation. "You gonna be in town for New Year's, Nik?"

He smiled back at her. "New millennium--same finances. You?"

She gave a little sigh, obviously wishing that he was *really* interested in knowing the answer. "I'll be here." She set her money on the bar, as she took her beer, and tucked an extra few dollars in his tip jar, gifting him with a wide grin. "See ya!"

He smiled and watched her return to her party of friends, one of whom they were trying to convince *not* to balance a glass on the end of his nose. He shook his head. Holidays.

He went back once more to his thoughts, then, as he looked around. Some people were beginning to filter back out into the night, many of them into the cabs which Carla had gotten stuck calling for them; all the regulars knew the schedule by now. Julie had tried staying open late on Christmas Eve--and opening at all on Christmas--one year, but had never tried it again after that; it had just depressed her too much. She liked the bar when it was lively and hated it when it just seemed to be a stopping place for those too depressed to make it through life without one more drink. . . . He had never argued with her decision.